


Slipping Through My Fingers

by Dirty_Corza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dirty_Corza/pseuds/Dirty_Corza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries his best to calm Sherlock down enough to go to the funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slipping Through My Fingers

John cringed when Sherlock’s fist made impact with the wall, flinching at the sound of the wall board threatening to crack. Even so, he made no move to stop him, not yet. He could see all too well that it would end with Sherlock pinned to the ground and seething, and probably ruin their suits, but they couldn’t afford that, not today. A new whole in the wall of the apartment for him to fix later was a small price to pay for only a smidgen of plaster marring Sherlock’s suit.

When the next thud was followed by a crash, though, John was forced into action. Holes in walls were one thing, but that was the sound of a picture frame falling, and knowing Sherlock it meant blood would be- John stopped at the door to Sherlock’s room, staring at the man whose hands were, as expected, now cut and bloody. With a deep breath, he steeled himself for what he had to do.

“Sherlock.” he crouched next to him, fingers gently prying away the shards of glass held in the detective’s tight grasp. “You’ve hurt yourself. Please let me take a look at it?”

There was no response from the dark haired man, sitting with his face downcast, staring unseeingly at the crimson stained mess he held.

Carefully, John eased the large shards of glass away, headless of the blood that colored his own fingers. “Come on, Sherlock. We have to-” his voice caught, stray tears falling from his face as he realized which picture had fallen and was now gripped by Sherlock and stained with blood. “We have to go to the church soon. Please, Sherlock?”

Sherlock slowly looked up at him, eyes red with the evidence of many tears, cheeks stained with new wet trails. “What’s the point, John?” he spat out the words in an angry sob, merely leaning into his touch when John set aside the glass to pull him close.

“Sentiment.” he said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “It’s always sentiment, you know.”

“Yes it is, but why do we have to go. There will be people there, John People who aren’t-“

“People sharing in her memories. And that’s why we’re going to be there. You know she’d want you to.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s the other people, John. They’ll see…”

“You being sentimental? Let them, Sherlock.”

He sighed, bloody fingers going to trace the smiling face in the photograph. “England has fallen, John. And I couldn’t stop it.”

John let his hands gently grasp Sherlock’s. “There was nothing any of us could do.”


End file.
